Chapter 2 - The Price of Silence
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The temperature in the room seemed to change.
Vincent ignored Beatrice. Ignored Carmine, who had begun stepping toward them. Vincent looked only at Camila. He wrapped an arm carefully around his mother’s shoulders and shielded her from the chandeliers.
“It’s all right, Ma.” His voice lowered until only she could hear him. “Thomas is waiting upstairs. Let’s go see him.”
Camila looked up. For a moment, something clear returned to her cloudy eyes. “Vincent. It’s loud down here.”
“I know.” He held her more tightly. “We’re leaving.”
Then Vincent looked at Beatrice.
There was no flare of uncontrolled rage in his stare. What he gave her was colder. A promise.
Beatrice swallowed and moved backward.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Beatrice,” Vincent said. “The wine is on the house.”
He guided Camila toward the stairs. As he passed his underboss, Paulie, Vincent gave him one small nod. Paulie understood. He stepped smoothly into the space Vincent left behind, diverting Carmine, managing the room, preserving the treaty for a little longer.
At the stairs, Vincent looked back.
The maid was gone. Only several tiny streaks of blood remained on the marble.
The kitchens beneath the Russo estate were vast and industrial, illuminated by cold fluorescent light. Steel worktops ran beneath the ceiling. The air smelled of bleach, roasted garlic, and old grease. Above them, the party continued, its music reduced to a dull vibration through the ceiling.
Most of the catering staff were upstairs. The prep area was almost empty when Vincent entered.
He had spent time beside Camila until she finally fell asleep, listening as she whispered to people who had been dead for years. Then he fired the nurse. It required one quiet sentence. She had packed and left in less than two minutes.
Now Vincent wanted the maid.
He found her near the deep sinks, seated on an overturned milk crate. A first-aid kit rested on her lap. Her skirt had been pulled above her knees, exposing abrasions embedded with tiny fragments of crystal.
She held a pair of cheap plastic tweezers and was trying to pull a piece of glass from her left knee.
She did not cry. Her jaw was locked. Her expression was one of tight irritation rather than self-pity.
Vincent remained near the door. People usually noticed him. Bodies stiffened. Conversations changed. Fear moved through a room before he said anything.
The maid did not even realize he was there. She was focused on the glass. Her breath hissed through her teeth as she finally pulled out a stubborn shard.
“You bled on my floor,” Vincent said. “Now you’re bleeding on my crates.”
She jumped. The tweezers fell to the tile.
For a fraction of a second, her dark eyes widened. Then they narrowed. She bent, retrieved the tweezers, and wiped them on a paper towel.
“I’ll mop it up before my shift ends.” Her voice was rough with exhaustion.
Vincent walked farther into the kitchen. Up close, she looked approximately twenty-two. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and exhaustion settled into her body with the permanence of something she had carried for years.
“What’s your name?”
“Nora.” She pressed gauze against her bleeding knee. “Nora Hayes.”
No sir. No Mr. Russo.
“Do you know who I am, Nora Hayes?”
She finally looked directly at him. Her eyes moved over the custom suit, the gold watch, and the expression that usually made grown men choose their words carefully.
“You’re the guy who signs my checks.” She paused. “Or your accountant does.”
Then she returned to her knee.
May you like
“If you’re down here to fire me for making a scene upstairs, just tell me. I have another shift at a diner at 4:00, and I’d like to get these bandaged before I have to stand on them for eight hours.”
Vincent felt an unfamiliar shift inside his chest. Not amusement. Something adjacent to it. Respect. A rare currency in his world.
